by Jesse Ball
In his dreams, both waking and sleeping, he was forced to watch as different men, not just the merchant, but others, came to his wife, and she to them. Finally Loren’s angers grew too great, and Ilsa fled the house in the company of a friend she knew only slightly, a girl she had encountered once, the supposed daughter of woman she knew. They fled to a nearby village, pursued by Loren, and took shelter in the uppermost room of an inn.
Loren rode that day desperately after her. He remembered how it had been in what seemed now like their youth. He thought of her gentleness, her tenderness with him always, and how quick she had been in thought, yet always thinking of him. And as he rode, his anger softened, and he felt in his heart that he had wronged her. Yet then by chance his eye passed over the reins and over his wrist and he beheld there the raging mark, the burn of which he felt still, and with it his anger grew.
He made his way into the town and cast his luck in the air. It sent him to the inn. He tied his horse to a pole, threw open the door, and entered. A great many people were in the common room. A young man in a blue-gray suit. A woman with a fan. An old man whose age lay all about his feet, and a tall man tall with a broad, kind face, a black beard, black eyes and hair, a dog on hind legs holding a violin. The black-bearded man took Loren by the shoulder. He said,
—You think that by going upstairs, the world will continue. But there is more to it than that. He wants to go upstairs, said the man, pointing to the young fellow in the blue-gray suit, but he isn’t going. He’s staying right here. You sit here a moment.
Loren sat. His mind was in a seething fury.
The young man in the blue-gray suit came over and patted him on the shoulder.
—My friend, he said, this is for you.
He pressed an orange into Loren’s hand. But it was not just any orange. It was the orange that Loren had been about to eat when news had come to him of his parents’ death. How had the orange been preserved so long? How could it still be fresh? Yet it was. Loren peeled the orange, and it was as perfect a fruit as he had ever seen. He took a portion and put it in his mouth, and the taste filled him. It was full of freshness and new promise, the lifting of obligation. He gave pieces of the orange to everyone in the room, and they all ate, smiling.
The young man knelt by Loren and whispered in his ear:
—Though we pass away now, the world will return to you again; fear not.
For at that moment the black-bearded blacksmith began to speak, and all that he said became more and more certain until only his subject remained.
—I heard tell once, he was saying, of a guess artist. He lived in a grand and impossible city, a place not out of a true future, but an imagined future. There were great wings that propelled men in gatherings through the sky, and tall, tall houses, called skyscrapers. In the water too there were massive ships that circumnavigated the world, bearing goods in trade. So many people lived in the city that they were forced to live atop one another. Houses atop houses atop houses. When the people went out into the street, there was one unending crowd through which they went and in which they lived.
There were many nations in the world, and all were linked, and the populace of this one city was composed of many of the peoples of the earth. Where this city met the ocean, on its southeast border, there was a great wooden plank-land, planks stretching out along the coast. They called it a boardwalk. And upon the boardwalk, the man of whom I speak, the guess artist, had a stand. Late in the day, when the heat had faded somewhat into the planks of the boardwalk and down into the sand that lay all around, he would take up his position in a tent behind a small counter adjoining the boardwalk, there to wait for customers.
The place was lit by electric light, something like the lightning that comes now from the sky, but harnessed, and set into veins called power lines. This energy was free to be used by anyone, and then night was not the serious affair that it is now. Lights lit the streets, lit the insides of buildings, and light lit the boardwalk, clear from one end of Coney Island to the other.
On this particular day the guess artist was sitting, looking out across the water, when a young Japanese couple approached. Across the way, a young man in a blue-gray suit had been waiting some time. The guess artist knew that the young man wanted to come to speak with the guess artist, but something was keeping him away.
The young Japanese couple looked at the guess artist’s brochure. It was a flat card that said,
—In three guesses I will guess what you are thinking.
—How much does it cost? asked Takashi Kawagata.
—You will give me what you think I deserve, said the guess artist.
—That sounds fair, said June Kawagata. What am I thinking?
—You are both thinking the same thing, said the guess artist. You are wondering whether the sun will ever go down, since you have been traveling now for six years on airplanes, staying ahead of the sun, and you have finally decided today to let yourselves see a sunset.
—That’s not true, said June. I design robots for use in private industry. We have an apartment on the West Side.
—Okay, said the guess artist. Three chances, right?
—Okay, said June. Shoot.
—You’re thinking about the cat you had when you were a child. There was one spot on its fur, to the left of its tail, which would never sit smoothly. The fur always stuck up. Somehow you thought that because the fur was always sticking up there, the world could never reward anyone with exactly what they wanted. This belief was for a long time unconscious in your head, but earlier today you realized why you believe what you believe. Furthermore, now you feel that it is certainly true. The cat died when you were nine. It is buried by the gate of your parents’ house in Tensshu.
—What is the cat’s name? asked June.
—You are being very careful not to think of the cat’s name, said the guess artist.
Then his expression changed. He looked at Takashi.
—The cat’s name was Octopus.
June gave Takashi a withering look.
—Don’t you have any self-control? she asked.
Takashi shrugged.
June looked at the guess artist.
—You’re pretty good, she said. What do you think?
—About what? he asked.
—About the patch of fur, she said.
—I think you’re right about the patch of fur. I could have told you more if you had brought Octopus here.
—But I was only a kid then. I didn’t know about you.
—I know, said the guess artist.
Takashi took a chocolate-chip cookie wrapped very carefully in waxed paper out of his bag. It was obviously from an extremely expensive cookie boutique uptown. He gave it to the guess artist.
—Thank you, said the guess artist.
—See you around, said June and Takashi.
The guess artist watched them walk off down the boardwalk. What a nice couple, he thought to himself.
At that moment, the young man in the gray-blue suit approached the guess artist’s booth. He was a serious young man with a way of moving that said, I am trying to be extraordinarily quiet right now even though it makes no difference.
—Hello, said the guess artist.
—Hello, said the young man.
—When you were standing over by the railing you were thinking about the time you parachuted from a small prop plane. It was your first time, and so you had to have someone jump with you, attached to your back. Nonetheless, the experience was wonderful. The day was slightly cloudy, and so you fell through hundreds of wisps of cloud, to emerge into an open sky over the Hudson Valley.
—Not really, said the young man.
The guess artist raised an eyebrow.
—Earlier today, I thought about that, said the young man. Just now I thought about how I had been thinking about that, to be precise. And anyway, the thing isn’t what I was thinking about when I was standing over there. It’s what I’m thinking about right now.
He looked at the young man again. Perhaps he resembled an animal that had been turned into a human being by some accident, and now was trying to make the best of the situation. Yes, said the guess artist to himself, that’s the way it is.
—Well…said the young man.
—You’re looking for a girl, said the guess artist. You had hoped she would be on the boardwalk, but she’s not. She’s upstairs somewhere, you think, though you don’t know where.
—Well, said the young man again, I think—
—But, continued the guess artist, you’re worried that you won’t be able to find her alone, and in truth, you will not be able to find her alone. She is too hard to find. You will need help. Somehow you knew that I was the only one who could help you. That’s why you’ve come here every day for the last week and stood over there watching me. Also, just now you noticed my chocolate-chip cookie and you want a bite. Ask me for a piece.
—Can I have a piece of your chocolate-chip cookie? asked the young man.
—Yes, said the guess artist. And, I will help you find this girl.
He broke the cookie into two halves. When he did this, the cookie broke beautifully. The substance it was made of was quite obviously the most extraordinary substance that one could make a chocolate-chip cookie from and still call it a chocolate-chip cookie. The two ate the cookie in silence. When they were done, the young man said,
—That’s the best chocolate-chip cookie I have ever eaten, or seen.
—Let’s go, said the guess artist. There isn’t much time. Do you have anything to show me, any clues to where she might be?
The young man slid an envelope out of his sleeve. He did it so quickly and well that the guess artist smiled at the artfulness of the gesture. There was a letter in the envelope. It said:
Hey, you,
I’m in a hurry, so I can’t write much. Meet me at Pier 12 at four a.m. two nights from now. Is there such a thing as useless obfuscation? I don’t think so.
Resolutely yours,
—Hmmm, said the guess artist. What happened when you went to the pier?
—It was very strange, said the young man.
At this the guess artist straightened up in his chair. The young man did not seem like the sort of person who used the word strange lightly.
—When I got there, there was some kind of selection process going on. There were many girls, all dressed alike in white linen sundresses. Also, they all looked vaguely like Her. But they weren’t Her. None of them was Her. Some of them even, while they were waiting for their turn to talk to the judges, made little gestures reminiscent of Her. But they were clearly not Her. I waited until they all spoke to the judges. Then I spoke to the judges. Then everyone left. Then I left.
—What did the judges say?
—They said that I seemed very confused and that I should have that looked at. Also they said they were going to have a drink and that if I wanted I could come along.
—What did they look like?
—The judges?
—Yes, said the guess artist.
—More of the same, said the young man. They looked perhaps even more like Her than the contestants.
—Hmmm, said the guess artist. And they didn’t say why they were there?
—There was a handbill, said the young man. He took it out of his other sleeve and gave it to the guess artist. The handbill was blank.
—Very interesting, said the guess artist.
He took a little bottle of rubbing alcohol from a cabinet that was hidden behind the counter and poured a little over the handbill. Letters emerged. The handbill now said:
Pier 12, four a.m. Look-alike contest.
—Did you go back the next night? asked the guess artist.
—Yes, there was a different contest. Everyone then also looked vaguely similar, but not to anyone I knew.
—Well, there’s only one thing for it, said the guess artist. Let’s go to the dead-letter office. There may be more correspondence for you there.
The guess artist came around the counter, turned, pulled the curtain to, and the new comrades headed off down the boardwalk in the direction of Manhattan. It was a fine night, and the people passing them all seemed happy in general about some unverified thing. The municipal inspector thought to himself that it was good in many ways that he did not know what this thing was, for perhaps in himself he carried the disproof of it, and that perhaps his knowing the falseness of their happiness would make it no longer real, whereas now it was real, real for them, and for him, protected by a veil of not-knowing. Meanwhile beside him the guess artist knew very well what it was about which the people were happy, but he did not let himself think about it. In his head were many obscure structures for protecting himself from the thoughts of others.
They reached the subway platform and boarded the train, when it came, in silence. The municipal inspector sat beside the guess artist, and they looked out the window over Brighton Beach as the train sped west.
—What should I call you? asked the guess artist.
—S. is fine, said the young man in the gray-blue suit.
—S. it is, then, said the guess artist. Why is it that this girl needs to be found in the first place?
—Because, said S., she has lost her memory.
—Ah! said the guess artist decisively. Ah ha!
Across the way, a large building slid by. There was an open window on the third floor. A girl was leaning out of it and waving at the train. It was almost certainly the girl whom S. was looking for. But S. was looking elsewhere. Only the guess artist saw her.
—What? asked S.
—Well, if she has lost her memory, then I think I know how she can be found.
—Do tell, said S.
—By reconstructing her entire past. But first, let’s look at the dead-letter office. There may be something there.
The train continued on its rambling way through Brooklyn and into Manhattan. The pair alighted at Thirty-fourth Street and made their way down to the enormous post office that sits like a behemoth in that section of the city.
Crossing Eighth Avenue, the guess artist asked the municipal inspector how they would manage to enter the post office at this late hour. To which the municipal inspector laughed and explained that he was a municipal inspector. To which the guess artist explained that he knew that already, but nonetheless, did there not exist the chance that his badge would not be taken seriously? To which the municipal inspector said that it was better not to think of that, at least for the moment.
By that time they were up the steps and knocking on the front door. A guard came up with a flashlight.
—Who are you? he asked. What do you want?
S. held up his badge. The guard examined it, and unlocked the door. Opening it, he said,
—All right, well, come on in.
S. did a slight bow in the guard’s direction, then continued past him into the post office.
—Do you know where we’re going? he asked the guess artist quietly.
—Not really, said the guess artist. Give me a moment.
He looked in the direction of the security guard, who was examining the lock mechanism on the door. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them.
—This way, he said.
—Did you just…? asked S.
—Better not to think about it, said the guess artist.
They continued down a short stairwell to a lower level, then along a ramp, through a double door, into a right-angling hallway, through a sort of auditorium, and then up to a large locked door. Beside it was a bell.
The guess artist stopped in front of the bell.
—I think it’s important that you ring the bell. We don’t want to mess this up.
—You’re right, said S. Do you remember what Ref the Sly said to his mother when he returned from killing Thorbjorn?
—It was a riddle, but I don’t remember what, said the guess artist,
unhappy that he had been caught forgetful of his sagas.
—He says that he probed the path to his heart. Also he says that he was offered a knife and a whetstone. I think Thorbjorn had it coming, don’t you?
—Probably, said the guess artist.
S. pulled very hard on the bell cord. The resulting sound was quite loud, but neither of them stirred an inch. The municipal inspector was thinking about the girl and how she had lost her memory because of being hit by a taxi. The guess artist was thinking that the municipal inspector was thinking of the Thomas Gray poem that goes
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.
The guess artist was touched very much by this. He thought it wonderful that the municipal inspector should admire also a verse of which he was so fond.
But, of course, he was wrong. The municipal inspector was thinking about how it was strange that Mora had managed to land entirely upon her head, and did things like that happen to her often? Perhaps they did, and if so, was she a good person to know? Perhaps not.
A little metal window slid open, and someone’s eye was looking at them.
—What do you want?
—Is this the dead-letter office? asked S.
—Are you asking me? asked the dead-letter clerk.
—I suppose, said S.
—Then come back tomorrow. At this hour, we only deal with implacable demands, particularly those enforced with fists and knives.
He shut the metal window, and his footsteps were audible as he walked away from the door.
S. rang the bell again. After a moment, the footsteps could be heard again. Again the window slid open.
